


Apologies

by tricksterity



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Secretly Married
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-07
Updated: 2015-09-07
Packaged: 2018-04-19 13:24:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4748036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tricksterity/pseuds/tricksterity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“We should tell Gaby,” Illya said.</p><p>“Tell her what?” Solo asked. “That we were married and then got divorced, but we didn’t actually do either because the paperwork would’ve led our respective governments straight to our relationship that we’ve been hiding for seven years? That'll go down well."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Apologies

**Author's Note:**

> because i am a sucker for secretly married tropes, and i noticed about halfway through the film that it got so much better when i pretended that solo and illya had been married and had a messy divorce and illya was trying to move on with gaby and was failing

* * *

 

_I’m trying not to let it show, that I don’t want to let this go, is there somewhere you can meet me? Because I clutched your arms like stairway railings, and you clutched my brain and eased my ailing._

_\- Is There Somewhere // Halsey_

 

Waverly walked away from them, a smug swagger coming through with each footstep as he did so. Solo didn’t have to see Gaby’s face to know that she was gaping at his retreating figure, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Illya turn away and stifle the growl that wanted to escape his throat.

 

The Italian sun was hot and beat down on them, and the tiny little bonfire they had crackled away merrily on the table. It was far too a nice a day to have news like that delivered.

 

“So…” Solo drawled, taking a sip of his scotch. He noticed the tight set of Illya’s shoulders, the fingers clenched against his own glass, tight nearly to the point that any added pressure would break it in his hands. Illya’s hands were covered in a faint, nearly unnoticeable latticework of scars from that exact thing happening multiple times over the course of his life. He’d always been freakishly strong.

 

“If you drop me in an active minefield again, Solo, I don’t care what our governments say, I will kill you,” Illya threatened as he turned back around to face him, jaw clenched tight and blonde hair glowing in the sun like a halo.

 

“I did say I was sorry, you know,” Solo replied, raising his eyebrows as Gaby lowered hers.

 

“No you didn’t,” she argued. Illya’s mouth twisted downward a little.

 

“Yes he did,” he replied.

 

“How?”

 

“I let him choke me out on the bathroom floor,” Solo piped up, taking a sip of his scotch, taking careful note of the way Illya’s breath hitched just slightly and his fingers tensed in memory of said choking out. Gaby took a hold of her sunglasses and pulled them far enough down her nose that she could stare at them with what was becoming her signature unimpressed expression.

 

“You told me that you fought when you saw each other again, but I don’t think letting someone nearly kill you is an _apology_ ,” she said, an undercurrent in her voice suggesting that she was once again completely _done_ with all the weird spy shit. She was a spy in name, not profession, and she’d made it clear that even though Waverly had taken her aboard, she didn’t want to have any more to do with it than she had to. And now she was permanently part of a team with them.

 

“Yes it is,” Illya replied brusquely, and Solo sighed. He was still as socially inept as he ever had been, even when he was trying to be romantic with Gaby. God, when she’d stood on the table and announced that they needed to check her tracker, Napoleon had had to excuse himself from the room so he wouldn’t laugh at Illya’s expression. The Russian really did try.

 

“Hey, I let him shoot me once, so being choked out isn’t exactly the worst apology I’ve ever made,” Solo threw out casually.

 

“When did he shoot you?” Gaby asked, eyebrows flying up as her eyes roved over him as though she could see a bullet wound through his suit.

 

“Greece, I think,” Solo said, looking over to Illya.

 

“The outskirts of Thessaloniki,” Illya confirmed. “You were being an ass.”

 

“You like my ass,” Solo replied, pursing his lips and raising his eyebrows as he took another sip of scotch, nearly snorting it up his nose as Illya’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

 

“When were we- you knew each other before all of this?” Gaby asked, and Solo didn't know whether he wanted to grin or sigh. They were the best in the business, and the particular secret of their relationship was so closely kept by the two of them that even their own superiors – men and women who were supposedly better than them – had never realised that they’d ever done more than occasionally cross paths. So he shouldn’t be surprised that Gaby hadn’t figured them out, even after spending so much time in tight quarters with them, and even with Illya trying to… awkwardly seduce her in his efforts to move on.

 

Efforts that may have been in vain, if the way his arms had wrapped around Solo’s waist on the vespa had anything to say about it.

 

“We may have come across each other once or twice,” Solo replied evasively. He liked Gaby, and saw how quickly Illya had taken to her (not unlike a chick imprinting on a mother duck, it was adorable), but he still didn’t trust her – especially when he wasn’t sure if her loyalty to Waverly would outweigh her loyalty to them. Maybe someday, they’d tell her.

 

Gaby pursed her lips. “It would explain how you knew what he would do so well in East Germany,” she said, Solo bit the inside of his mouth to stop from laughing. East Germany – that was the most fun he’d had in a while, especially watching Illya’s eyes burn with determination when he’d ripped the damn bumper off their car. He’d been a little morbidly fascinated to see if Illya would be able to keep up with their car or if he’d crash and burn.

 

“Yes, it would,” Illya said pointedly to Solo.

 

“Spy apologies are damn strange,” she sighed. It was how Napoleon and Illya worked though – they both knew what the other was capable of, just like how Solo hadn’t panicked when he’d seen the speedboat go down in flames, and had taken his time to let the interior of the truck fill with water to equalise the pressure before he went to retrieve an unconscious Illya from the bottom of the bay.

 

He had, however, been concerned for those few seconds after they’d broken water when Illya hadn’t breathed. Solo had rest Illya’s head back onto his shoulder, hand under his chin to keep his face above water, and had placed his fingers on his pulse as those seconds stretched out into an eternity before Illya’s body had convulsed and he’d spluttered out the water from his lungs incredibly loudly for a stealth mission. Honestly, he should’ve learned to die quietly by now. He hadn’t worried though, because he knew Illya’s limits, and knew that he’d survive that long underwater, even if those few seconds had sent his heart racing.

 

Illya apparently felt the same, because he didn’t even try to hide the gentle manoeuvring touches he’d placed on Solo when they’d been trying to get back into the hotel later on when Victoria was arriving.

 

Solo finished the last sip of his scotch and let out a sound of enjoyment at the pleasant burn that tingled down his throat. He placed the tumbler back onto the table, next to their merrily burning backup disk of destruction, and fished a pair of sunglasses out of his pocket.

 

“Well, considering that we aren’t going to be parting ways any time soon, I guess I can say see you later,” he said with a grin. He brushed past Illya and rest a hand on Gaby’s shoulder on his way out, mentally going through the list of things he had to do, and wondered whether Illya would have actually killed him for the hard drive.

 

When he swept back into his room that night just as the sun was setting, Illya was waiting for him, brows furrowed.

 

“We are going to be working on a team together,” Illya said.

 

“I know, I was there,” Solo replied, unbuttoning his suit jacket before he slid it off his shoulders and lay it on the back of his sofa.

 

“The three of us will be working in very close quarters. We will have to trust each other, and let there be no surprises,” Illya continued, and Solo headed towards the kitchenette, where the electric kettle that Illya had put on clicked off.

 

“Astute observation,” Solo replied, ignoring the fact that he knew exactly what Illya was trying to say. He pulled out two mugs from the cupboard and two different types of tea, and a small sugar sachet. He put the English breakfast teabag with the sugar in one cup, the earl grey in the other, and poured water over them. He added a splash of milk to both of them, and carried the mugs over to Illya, handing him the breakfast tea. Illya took it with a nod though he was still frowning, perched on the edge of the desk.

 

“We should tell Gaby,” Illya finished, and Solo blew gently over his tea. He’d usually have a scotch, but the rumbling of the electric kettle in the room when he’d entered had clued him in on what Illya wanted.

 

“Tell her what?” Solo asked. “That we were married and then got divorced, but we didn’t actually do either because the paperwork would’ve led our respective governments straight to our relationship that we’d been hiding for seven years? That would go down well. Especially now that you’ve set your sights on her, Illya.” He expected Illya to give him his unimpressed expression that rivalled Gaby’s, and was surprised when the Russian broke eye contact and looked down into his tea.

 

“Oh, no,” Solo said, standing up and placing his mug slightly too hard down onto the table, causing the water to nearly overflow onto the expensive wood. “You were the one who ended it with us. You don’t get to go starting this up again, especially since you’re trying so hard to like Gaby.”

 

“Trying is the operative word,” Illya growled out, frustrated. Napoleon blinked in shock. He knew that Illya hadn’t liked anyone romantically since they’d had their… falling out and the recurring ‘apologies’ that had occurred thenceforth, but what was budding between Illya and Gaby had been looking promising, even if Solo did respond to it by being passive aggressive like letting Illya suffer through a lengthy speedboat chase while he enjoyed a good sandwich.

 

“Want to elaborate?” Solo asked, pacing over to the window, watching the sun begin to set behind the Roman buildings. He heard Illya sigh and the clink of him setting his mug down onto the table next to Napoleon's, but didn’t hear his footsteps as he walked closer. Illya was far too well trained for that.

 

“What I mean,” Illya began, from so close behind Solo that he could feel him breathe, “is that I would probably be able to be with her if you weren’t going to be around all the time.”

 

Solo sighed. “It was a mutual decision on both our parts to get divorced, the work was putting too much strain on our relationship, and after what you said… well, you _know_ what you said, Illya. You don’t get to say things like that to me, and Gaby doesn’t need to know.” Illya was silent, and for once Solo wasn’t sure what was going through that head of his, which was definitely a first.

 

“Saying what I did was probably-“

 

“Illya, so help me God, if you follow that up with ‘the biggest mistake of my life’ I _will_ stab you,” Solo ground out, and Illya snorted a laugh that ruffled the hair atop Solo’s head, but he didn’t continue on or finish his sentence. Solo eventually turned around with a raised eyebrow.

 

“Well?” he asked, prompting Illya to continue. The Russian just shrugged.

 

“I don’t want to get stabbed,” he said, and Solo had to bite the inside of his mouth to stop himself from laughing. There was no point though – Illya was close enough to see every minute change in Solo’s face, and the Russian’s eyes softened exactly like they used to, and Napoleon groaned and forced himself to walk away.

 

“Don’t do that, Kuryakin,” he bemoaned.

 

“Do what?” Illya replied, and that was definitely that rare teasing tone that came out in his voice. “I did nothing.”

 

“You know exactly what you did,” Solo said, taking a sip of his tea that was still far too hot to distract himself, managing to keep himself from wincing as it burned down his throat. He put the mug back onto the table and Illya’s hand came out from nowhere to circle his wrist, but Solo was far too used to Illya moving about silently to start from it.

 

“Leon…” Illya said quietly, and damn, Solo had never been able to resist the Russian when he called him that. He sighed and looked up at Illya, saw the puppy dog expression on his face, the sadness in his eyes that came out when he didn’t know how to voice what he wanted to say and was begging for Solo to take mercy and read it in his actions and expression.

 

Illya was apologising. Not like their usual apologies, which were really just conceding to the other to make them happy, but one full of regret.

 

Solo’s jaw clenched at it, but he didn’t stop Illya from raising his other hand to cup his face, his calloused thumb running across Napoleon’s jawline, and he noticed Illya’s eyes flicker down to his lips. That was all the warning he had before Illya leaned down and captured his lips with his own, and this was the only form of torture that Solo had never been able to fight against.

 

He felt his muscles relax from their tense, hyperaware state that they were always in since he and Illya had parted ways, and his free hand raised up to tangle into the blond-brown mess of Illya's hair. He opened his mouth for him, and let Illya’s tongue slide against his, let Illya’s hand on his wrist move down to his lower back to pull them together, let Illya plunder his mouth in a way that always left him a little breathless. He wrapped his arms around Illya’s neck, pulling the ridiculously tall man further down, threading his fingers through the strands of his hair, and ignored the painful feeling reminiscent to a balloon swelling in his chest that made tears want to prickle in his eyes.

 

God, he’d _missed_ this.

 

He’d deny it until the end of his days, but he’d missed these stolen moments with Illya, the way the man knew his body as well as he knew his own, the way Illya would start out gentle and consuming with soft hands and soft lips, before something would spark in the Russian’s chest when Solo let himself relax into it, and Illya would be wrapping those hands under his thighs and hauling him up, kisses turning rough and biting and devouring. He’d missed the casual touches between missions, the feeling that built up in his chest when he saw Illya after months away on a mission, even if the Russian had been limping home bruised and beaten.

 

He missed the way that they fit together perfectly with their broken pieces, the way that they found solace in each other in a world that held a dangling knife above their heads at all times. He missed the way that Illya knew every single sweet spot on his body the way that Solo knew Illya’s own, the way that the Russian would dig his fingers into Solo’s hips, the way that they’d bounce off each other in conversation, Illya’s quiet wit and dry humour.

 

He missed most of all what Illya was doing right now – holding Napoleon so tightly to him like he was the only thing in the world that mattered, like if he let go he’d shatter into a thousand pieces and that was the one thing that would destroy him.

 

He missed _belonging_ to Illya, being able to see the blonde anywhere and know with complete certainty that the Russian was his, despite whatever was necessary on their missions. To know that whatever they had to do to each other to keep their covers, even if they’d one day be forced to dig a knife into the other and _twist_ , they’d always belong to each other.

 

Napoleon pulled away suddenly, though he couldn’t get very far with Illya’s arms around him.

 

“Illya…” he breathed, trying to clear his thoughts. Trying to remember why this was a bad idea. Trying to remember why they’d left each other even after they’d gotten married despite the lack of a ceremony, or rings, or official documentation. Trying to remember anything past the thrill he’d used to get when he saw Illya and thought _my husband_.

 

“Please,” the Russian replied, leaning his forehead against Napoleon’s. Illya didn’t have to say any more for Solo to know exactly what he was trying to say, what he was thinking, because they knew each other too well to have to vocalise anymore, just like how Napoleon had known that Illya would be fast enough to dodge the bullets Napoleon sent straight to his head in East Germany.

 

“We… we can’t, Illya,” he stuttered, trying to concentrate on the anger he’d seen in Illya’s eyes before he’d tackled him into a bathroom stall, the way Illya had flipped the table when Napoleon had purposefully pissed him off so he could ignore the feelings running rampant in his own chest at the knowledge that they were being allowed to work together for the first time. He tried to remember all the ways that he’d been angry with Illya and how Illya had been furious with him because even though their ‘divorce’ had been mutual, it had also been messy and filled with things said that both of them had instantly regretted. They’d both been far too well trained in ways to hurt other people for their relationship to have ever ended in any other way.

 

Maybe they were destined for it to end like that again. Maybe they’d come back together like the shards of a broken vase only to break apart over and over, but always coming back each time. Maybe that was how they stayed together – by violently exploding apart and then finding their way back into each other’s arms.

 

“Illya,” he said, brain scrambled, his usual wit failing him.

 

“Please, _radost moya*_ ,” Illya breathed, and the fragile defences and logical reasoning that Napoleon had been building up to convince himself to break the grip Illya had on him fled at those words. The only coherent thought he really had at that point was _fuck it_ , and he grabbed Illya’s shirt to drag the Russian towards him, allowing their lips to slide wetly together, allowing Illya to bite his bottom lip and draw him in impossibly closer.

 

He groaned as Illya’s hands moved from his lower back past the curve of his ass to grip his thighs, and he let Illya lift him up, wrapping his legs around the Russian’s waist. They moved, and Napoleon was being placed atop the desk, and they apparently weren’t going to get as far as the bed as Illya pressed him down onto the wooden surface, moulding their bodies together like he ached to be so far apart, and that was when Napoleon knew that no matter how many times they shattered apart, they would _always_ come back together, and yes, they probably should tell Gaby.

 

Illya made quick work of his tie and waistcoat, and the open-mouthed kisses he pressed down Napoleon’s chest with each button he undid was an apology each, and when Napoleon tangled his fingers in blond strands to make Illya look up at him, he had only two thoughts cross his mind.

 

 _My husband,_ and _I forgive you._

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> * _radost moya_ (радость моя) is a pet name, meaning "my joy".
> 
> also by the way before ya'll go screeching "but evvie, it's the 1960's, guys can't get married anyway" i'm 96% sure this film was set in an alternate feminist history, kinda like man in the high castle but less.... VERY alternate, and therefore nobody gives a shit about sexualities bc i am so over the "period-typical homophobia" tag on here
> 
> **If you liked my writing and you're interested in me writing something for you, click[HERE](http://tricksterity.tumblr.com/post/140544637431) for more information! **


End file.
